Process
by greysnyper
Summary: How Sherlock unlocks the pieces of the world. Or, how the world uses those pieces to shut Sherlock down.


The world is right with all its pieces in their place. Sometimes, the world neatly cuts the pieces with a calculating, surgical coldness and scatters events and people into parts-mysteries, which Sherlock Holmes unlocks and navigates into order again for others to comprehend. It's his talent to reorganize secrets as a translator would, transposing the complex for simple minds to appreciate. For a brief moment, it is close-the understanding of others. As a constant, it will still ultimately eluded everyone and Sherlock will remain with the truth well in hand, remembered and controlled-owning it. This is a power that leaves some frightened or bewildered or threatened by Sherlock. On rare occasions, it does impress...

For instance, the now. Sherlock is explaining how he had known to come to this particular warehouse to find the drugs and the car used in the murder of Saul Straights-local politician turned black-mailer. The pieces had all been present, as obvious as a neon sign that had pointed the way to this place and its relevant players. Yet John Watson could never perceive the shape of those pieces unless Sherlock described to him their outlines and textures. He reads to John about dark patterns beneath the sea that Sherlock cannot help but observe, and John listens and responds with imagination and wonder, which is an important role. A rare thing, that John acts as assistant and follower. With John about, Sherlock can practice communicating his concepts and never tires of painting their pictures if John never tires of hearing them. It does Sherlock good to voice these things aloud sometimes, and he had never known this before John Watson had come along. A useful thing, John Watson.

Lestrade had always listened, but he had never truly given the revelations the honour they deserved. Lestrade's role is to open access to the pieces and to ultimately put them to rest, usually with paperwork. He provides a means for Sherlock to have them, but the detective inspector is often blind to the significance of each moment, clue or thing. He wants the practical, with no appreciation for art-the skeleton, without the subtle nuances of flesh. His recognition for Sherlock and the processes Sherlock employs do not hold well against Lestrade's duels of desperation and pride. The inspector is merely a blind guard at a gate with keys to the material, but only really needing Sherlock to walk across the borders and bring in the pieces complete. It is tedious, especially with the team Lestrade chooses to keep about. The individuals there lack imagination and serve no purpose-nay, even hinder the process of disclosure, as Donovan and Anderson (the most common culprits) are threatened continuously by their incompetence being unveiled again and again and again. They create obstacles to Sherlock's path and drag Lestrade to doubt alongside them.

The two officers are lingering and begrudging him now, as the rainy morning progresses outside of the warehouse. Donovan and Anderson are far too close for Sherlock's preference, listening in as he explains to John the significance of Saul Straight's deodorant in bringing them here and it does not bode well to Sherlock's tastes that Lestrade has already lost interest and wandered several feet away to give orders to the police officers marching evidence out into the rain, no doubt trying to save face in front of a wall of reporters gathering behind the yellow police tape. It is another day for Lestrade to pass off credit to Sherlock, but he falls into habits of making busywork and delegation and it's almost charming how Donovan bristles, likely upset on Lestrade's behalf since she and the team weren't open-minded enough to see, feel and understand the parts of the investigation (Donovan should have at least figured out the deodorant angle, it having been used against her enough times) and put them together. That had been Sherlock's honour, once more. And Sherlock basks in this, studiously ignoring the two damp detectives as he gives John the rundown of what everyone who is not Sherlock had failed to observe, and he's pleased since the pieces had been beautifully collected in such an efficient manner that the whole ordeal had concluded much quicker than Sherlock had initially estimated. It is not even eleven, and Lestrade had caved in at nine-opening the gate of the investigation for Sherlock and John to walk through. There will be time over lunch to impart to John just how particularly clever Sherlock has been, which won't be difficult judging by John's expression as the doctor plays with the pieces Sherlock has illuminated, fitting them together mentally as a child might with a Fisher Price toy. The same wonder is certainly present, which Sherlock regards with more pleasure than frustration at John's continued lack of growth. John can stay this way forever.

They all can stay this way forever. For that is how the world is, with its pieces falling into the right places and the people in Sherlock's life filling their proper roles. Today, it is raining and not yet noon and a murder has been solved, and a drug lab has been uncovered and everything makes sense to Sherlock Holmes. It's why he doesn't seem to understand when the world unexpectedly says:

"Fuck you, Sherlock Holmes!"

Sherlock Holmes cannot help but look at the pieces. New pieces. It is what he does.

The voice is an unknown one. It's male and rises above the noise of rain, distant cars, gathered people and a police investigation. It doesn't belong here and Sherlock starts to dismiss it. Larger pieces, closer to him, push the smaller distinctions aside for Sherlock to mull over later-such as the voice being Cornish, impulsive. The words rehearsed, but only invented in the last several minutes. Premeditation, but only a few moments worth of deciding. Righteousness to the course of action, and uncertainty as to the results. No, he finds the significance of this later.

At Sherlock's elbow, the reaction of John Watson becomes a part of the puzzle. John raises an eyebrow at the proclamation and is wearing his belief on his face that Sherlock has pissed of someone new (likely), and then John, with one glance behind them transforms in front of Sherlock into something new.

It's the first thing that stops Sherlock's process of elucidation. John's not supposed to change. Tense, surprised, coiling as if to flee or turn violent-the full attention of John Watson is no longer Sherlock's to command. It rips away and leaves a vacuum of data in its wake.

Voices, a lot of them. A scramble of many feet on soft, giving ground. A cry of gun in a barked, female tone. Sherlock hears the crack of what is probably the gun in question, but he doesn't feel fear at the sound. He's lost John at his side and then the world pitches sideways. The gravel is pliant but rocky and his elbows scrape enough on sharp stones through his clothing to burn a rash into his skin. He is surprised at finding Donovan on top of him, and she pushes his head down with no sense of gentleness as they become a clutter of limbs. The air is a cacauphony of shouts and there's a slap or a punch or a grunt from where Sherlock cannot see. There is mud in Sherlock's hair as he lays blindly. One more crack, especially loud before someone is yelling that it's contained, not to shoot, and another voice is commanding that the perimeter and the reporters be kept at bay, or searched.

Sherlock is inconvenienced, and cannot put the scene-the cause and events and players-together. He is sprawled on the ground. He is processing, processing, processing.

"Yeah, shit. You're fine." It's Donovan, and Sherlock stops compiling to look at her anew. She's different too. She stops pressing into parts of him with her weight and searches his face with something cold and serious and very much unlike her. There's irritation in her gaze, but he doesn't believe that it's directed at him. Strange. She is lithe in getting to her feet, dismissing him and the mud on her hands and sleeves to survey the vicinity. She is, he identifies, gathering data herself. Then she leaves him.

Where is John? The thought comes unbidden and the absence of the doctor stops the processing again. The world is certainly not in its right order if John Watson isn't accounted for, but then Sherlock sits up and allows his talent to focus on answers, kick-starting it. He can hear John. John and Anderson are conversing and they are both uncomfortably far away, about fifty metres.

"Should you even be doing that?" Anderson is saying. "There's medics on the way and police trained in first-"

"_Goddamn it_, Anderson. I'm a military doctor. _This_ is what I do."

Donovan's retreating form blocks Sherlock's view of the cluster of bodies-John and Anderson at work. He needs more data but trusts he'll get it, now that he knows John's whereabouts and is reassured that even John can agree that Anderson is especially stupid today.

Perhaps the transformed Donovan has enlightened herself, for her voice is clipped when it says, "Anderson, cuff the bastard and let Watson do his thing."

Water slips dirty down Sherlock's face and he blinks it from his eyes. It is irrelevant. He studies the collection of people he knows, aware that at the fringes of his vision there are bodies rushing about and Lestrade should be delegating them. Donovan clearly hesitates to say something, bent beside Watson before she rises and starts shouting into her radio. Her voice unconsciously channels Lestrade's, choosing words he uses and adopting a tone greatly unlike her own. She's holding back with uncharacteristic uncertainty. She's taking charge without joy of the task.

Sherlock blinks more water from his face and tries to place context. He is uncomfortable and he notes that his jacket, his trousers and his hands will be soiled. He has nothing he can wipe his fingers on, and then frowns. No, there is an order to things and Sherlock is skilled at knowing it-controlling it. Prioritize. What is happening?

The scene. Crime scene. Players in their places. Good. Understood that. A disruption. External threat. One of the criminals, relating to the murder of Saul Straights, or perhaps tied to the drug lab inside chanced upon the police raid but was not smart enough to leave and attempt escape. Engages. Fuck you Sherlock Holmes, so after Sherlock specifically. Draws firearm. Is seen. John's behaviour makes sense now. Sherlock had been focused on explanation. Sergeant Donovan had removed Sherlock as a ready target, which explains the tackle. Shots had been issued. John reacts as a doctor in wartime-good, no negative backlash from John's post-tramautic stress. Anderson remains an idiot and Lestrade...

Lestrade contains the scene, which Donovan is doing. Why is she copying Lestrade's behaviour? Need data. She is still unlike herself as Sherlock watches her march away with a reluctant step, smothering some type of desperation with an iron will that will leave her feeling old and exhausted after this case. That's Lestrade's talent...

Sherlock gets to his feet to apply context to explain this transition. There are sirens and they are not police sirens. There is Anderson, faithfully useless Anderson, applying handcuffs like a moron and finally relinquishing a shaved-head teenager to the more capable hands of an officer Sherlock doesn't recognize. The kid is not important, he decides as he settles his attention on Anderson as if the focus could save Sherlock's life. It very well might, though Sherlock cannot say why. The world and its pieces are in disarray and the players unbecoming of Sherlock's standards. He needs to find stability and Anderson is still a fool and strangely a lodestar to bask in. Only, the forensic officer is blissfully unaware of these rules that Sherlock's laid out, and the forensic scientist is nervously shaking his hands on his wet scrub suit and twitching. He's scared, and Sherlock's never seen him scared like this.

John.

Sherlock anchors his reality to John Watson, who is speaking as Sherlock approaches. John has the calmest, most assured voice and is hunched over a form as Sherlock dutifully gathers the pieces back to himself. The pieces grow sharp and demanding-and they proclaim John to be the most competent person present. It is not a surprise, though Sherlock realizes that he has never seen John like this. The world has made John for this. His hands bear gloves, which John had not been wearing before. Lestrade's pockets have a pair half-pulled out, so, ah, John had relinquished a pair from the detective inspector who-

Steady and reassuring, John says, "listen to me and breathe like I'm breathing," which is a strange thing to say, but now Sherlock's got a clear view of everything. All the parts have shown themselves and Lestrade is on the ground with his knees up and John is pushing bloody gloved hands above and below the detective inspector's shoulder, and Lestrade fails to follow John's example in an acceptably timely manner. Lestrade fails to fill Sherlock's expectations of a worn in, yet mulish ally. Lestrade is transformed before Sherlock to a pale, ashen form whose line of sight cuts through the consulting detective without seeing him.

There is blood enough for a crime scene murder. The world has spoken, saying fuck you Sherlock Holmes for looking at its secrets. It transforms everyone and leaves Sherlock Holmes, for once, with no idea of how to put the players back in their roles and the pieces back together.

He doesn't remember passing out. Or vomiting. He's done one, or both, seeing how his mouth tastes like bile and he has no memory of how he came to be in the recovery position on the ground. There's even an orange blanket atop of him. The processing part of him doesn't quite work, but Sherlock numbly sits up-muddied again and having been moved-and pulls himself to the side of a cold, parked police cruiser. Activity is still bustling about, though nobody seems to pay him much mind.

"They're a little too busy to take pictures."

It's John, whose loafers come into view and stop beside Sherlock. The detective doesn't rightly know what John is talking about.

The doctor settles into a crouch, and then gingerly sits with care as if he has aches that are bothering him. He thrusts a plastic water bottle at Sherlock. "Nicked this from an ambulance. It'll help."

Sherlock stares at John's exposed hand, expecting more blood than the small smudge on John's sleeve. It's not raining hard enough to wash everything away. Sherlock frowns until John pushes the bottle into Sherlock's nose.

"You're not okay," John states. It's a trap. Sherlock notices it on some level, but falls for it anyway.

"I'm fine." He snatches the bottle and twists the lid off. The water, while room temperature, is good. Sherlock spits a mouthful to the side and drinks half of the remainder. He doesn't know what else to say, though there are questions crowded somewhere and they all demand a turn first-if only they would articulate themselves. Sherlock can't find words or focus. Maybe he's not okay.

And how is John okay? The doctor sits relaxed, tired but unconcerned. The cruiser holds John up while Sherlock hunches in on himself. There is white noise in Sherlock's head as he idly plays with the bottle.

John finally says, "you passed out because you skipped breakfast and I know you didn't eat yesterday evening. There was a lot of blood and it's perfectly normal to go into shock when you're attacked and a friend gets hurt."

"I know it's normal," snaps Sherlock, clutching the bottle and hearing the plastic protest. A friend, John had said...that drew Sherlock short.

"He's fine," John adds tentatively. "It looked bad but I've seen weaker men pull through worse. Greg's going to recover brilliantly. The bullet passed cleanly through and didn't hit anything it shouldn't have."

The words are reasonable and John believes them. Sherlock still has trouble getting his head around it. Lestrade had been shot? When had that happened?

John sighs, and Sherlock belatedly realizes that he may have been muttering aloud.

"And you're in shock," John murmurs. He seems to have become the embodiment of patience, which suits him.

"And how are you not in shock?" challenges Sherlock, unintentionally petulant. He doesn't want to be childish. The feelings he associates from his childhood with Mycroft come to Sherlock unbidden. It is unpleasant to think he's reliving them.

"That might come later," John admits plainly. "I'm currently going through a refractory period, after that adrenaline and focus. I'll be a bit useless for awhile. But in case you forget, my job used to be dealing with this very situation."

And now John is lecturing Sherlock as if Sherlock were Anderson. A part of the consulting detective chokes inside. It isn't alright. Logically, Sherlock knows it to be a ridiculous concept, but he could not help but feel vulnerable. Please, no trembling. Of all of his people changing around him, Sherlock really needs to stay the same.

John, perhaps unaware, grunts and then pulls himself up the parked cruiser to stand. "Come on. There's an Italian place on the corner two or three blocks up. We're going to eat."

Sherlock feels no appetite, despite how hollow his insides are. "It's an awful excuse for an Italian restaurant," he protests.

"I don't care," John says, hauling Sherlock to his feet and being present to carry his flatmate's weight as Sherlock stumbles. "If you eat, I'll bully us into the hospital after and you can insult Greg in person or something. I'm sure he needs to hear how Donovan used undue force when she tackled you, or how Anderson is an idiot."

"He is an idiot," Sherlock agrees distantly. That John thinks that Lestrade would be well enough for visitors today is good, and Sherlock is surprised at the stabilizing effect that has on him. He frowns, staring at the empty ground and the yellow tape and unfamiliar faces of the officers and rubbernecking civilians. Had Donovan used undue force?

John prods him. "How did Saul Straights end up wearing his killer's body spray again?"

Sherlock hesitates, trying to recall the pieces of evidence and the trails that they had delivered him to. It had been Saul's debt that had been a motive to kickstart his blackmailing. Having an old roommate involved in the drug operation had given Saul access to both the money involved and the roommate's personal effects, which Saul had had no problem borrowing when-as Sherlock reiterates the logical conclusions, he realizes by John's third interruption for clarification what the doctor is really up to. John is smarter than the questions he's posing. Sherlock stops speaking and knows John will turn at the silence and be caught.

Still, the ruse had worked. Sherlock feels something of himself return and John's inspecting look holds a smugness that says he doesn't care that he's been found out. And that he still thinks it's brilliant.

.

"Thanks," Sherlock says, deft with the word as he shucks the gaudy blanket from his shoulders and drops it to snag the police tape they're passing. His next few steps are graceful and imposing enough to part the small group of gawking pedestrians while still ignoring them. Sherlock trusts John's trained eyes to identify any new threats, not that this crowd could produce two imbecile punks armed with guns.

Perhaps if it could, Sherlock could repay the fool in kind for shooting his detective inspector.

John is watchful. The pieces are being observed again and they are telling Sherlock a story. Extraordinary circumstances will bring out extraordinary behaviours in individuals. Sherlock's experiences had not accounted for that. He'll have to...make adjustments.

John says, "you can thank me by eating all that you order."

Simple, if Sherlock gets to control what he orders (breadsticks, he wants breadsticks...). He concedes this to John. Another anomaly he can live with, as the world rights itself once more.


End file.
